


When I Ruled the World

by Antheas_Blackberry



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caring!Mycroft, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Greg likes Blake's 7, Gregory worries about cases, Grief, Holding Hands, Hurt/Comfort, Love and Happiness, M/M, Naked Cuddling, No major character deaths, PWP, Post-TFP, Sickfic, Standing in the rain, drabbles related to recent events, greg is a silver fox, probably more death and dying than one would like, the pair of them watch a lot of Bond movies, tw: self-harm, worried!Lestrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-03-23 06:26:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 16,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3757873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antheas_Blackberry/pseuds/Antheas_Blackberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short glimpses of the lives of Gregory Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes as part of Mystrade Thursday (or whenever).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cedar

When Gregory came home the following evening, the townhouse was eerily dark and still. He knew Mycroft was home; his umbrella was in the stand by the front door. He checked the kitchen and Mycroft’s study and found them both empty. Frowning worriedly, he took the stairs two at a time to their bedroom.

Gregory found Mycroft asleep on top of the duvet. The younger man was curled on his side, a sleep mask over his eyes. He had removed his suit jacket and waistcoat; his sleeves rolled up displaying pale, freckled forearms. Mycroft had once told him he took after his maternal grandmother in that respect. He was very careful not to add to them now (as much as possible of course), as he didn’t want to end up one giant freckle like she had.

The detective inspector smiled fondly and a bit sadly at the figure his sleeping lover made. The poor dear must be utterly worn out if he had come home to sleep and not continue to work. 

The lamp was on its lowest setting allowing a dull light to illuminate the room. It was then Gregory noticed the discarded tissues on the bedside table along with empty foil packets of painkillers and Sudafed. 

He was unsure how long he had been standing there until Mycroft shuddered and sneezed, a damp, squelching sound that had Gregory fretting even more.

“God bless you, love,” Gregory said softly.

Mycroft sat up, pushing off the sleep mask as he did so, scrabbling for the box of tissues on the bedside table. He could feel his nostrils flaring from the prickling irritation within. Snatching a fair few, he buried his nose within them, gasping out ticklish breaths.

Gregory frowned at the sound of the thick and heady sneezes from his partner. He sounded absolutely miserable. Sitting down on the bed, he put an arm around Mycroft. “God bless you again,” he exclaimed, placing a kiss on his temple.

Mycroft took a moment to tend to his nose. “Thank you, Gregory. My apologies,” he said, rubbing at his irritated eyes. Gregory could see in the faint light that they were red; Mycroft must have been rubbing at them all day.

“You’re welcome. And you know, no apologies are necessary.” Gregory paused a moment, thoughtful. “Are you feeling that poorly?”

Mycroft didn’t answer right away. Sniffling back a drop of moisture, he rubbed at his irritated, pink-tinged nostrils with the ball of damp tissues he was still holding. Gregory reached over and plucked a few from the box, and swapped them out for Mycroft. 

“Thank you,” Mycroft murmured, slightly embarrassed, but not feeling up to having any disagreements with his partner. He dabbed at his nose again, and sighing, settled into Gregory’s warm, comforting arms. “I am feeling rather wretched,” he finally said, speaking into the softly lit room. 

Gregory rubbed Mycroft’s neck, trying to ease the muscle tension there. Mycroft gave a soft moan and relaxed into the touch. Gregory smiled as he watched his lover start to relax.

Mycroft closed his eyes and relished the touch of Gregory’s strong hands on his neck and shoulders. He surrendered to the sensation, letting the stress of the day melt away. He reached up and rubbed at his right eye in annoyance as he felt the ticklish irritation return to his beleaguered nostrils. With a breathy inhale he gave into the paroxysms, burying his nose into the tissues once again.

“God bless you, love,” Gregory said, rubbing his shoulders gently.

“Thank you, my dearest heart. Please do excuse me,” Mycroft said stuffily.

Gregory dutifully handed over another handful of tissues. Mycroft smiled his thanks before blowing his nose as gently as possible, not wanting to trigger another fit of sneezes. When he was done, he sighed, resigned to his allergic fate. 

Gregory pressed a kiss into the back of Mycroft’s head. He could smell the soft scent of his shampoo mixed with the muted scent of bergamot and cedar that was distinctly Mycroft. 

He hated to see him suffer like this and wished that there was something more that he could do. They sat there like that, quietly, until Gregory’s stomach growled.

They both laughed. “Sorry,” Gregory said, unnecessarily. 

“Nonsense, Gregory. I am rather hungry myself,” Mycroft chided, turning to look at his partner.

Gregory kissed him on the cheek. “Dinner?”

“Dinner,” Mycroft replied with a faint sniff.


	2. Frost

The air was chilly with the hint of frost as Detective Inspector Lestrade left Scotland Yard. He stopped a few feet from the door, pausing to light a cigarette, most certainly not caring that he was meant to have quit again. Not today.

He moved slowly toward where his car was parked, alternating breaths of fresh air, with the nicotine hit he desperately needed. He stubbed out his cigarette as he got to his car, sniffling softly in the chilly night air.

It was always the cases with children that got to him, got under his skin, like a painful sliver that he was unable to dislodge. He briefly wondered why you needed a license to drive and to fish, but any idiot could be a parent, before sinking down into a crouch and putting his head in his hands. It didn’t take long for the tears to come.

He wasn’t sure what made him finally look up. When he did, he saw Mycroft standing a few feet away, watching, waiting. Gregory wearily stood, wiping the tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand. “You didn’t have to come,” he said, sniffling damply.

Mycroft gave him a sad smile. “I know,” he said, closing the distance between them. He handed him his handkerchief, which Gregory accepted with a nod. The older man wiped his eyes and blew his nose, and then shoved the damp cloth into the pocket of his coat. 

Reaching out, Mycroft put a hand on Gregory’s arm. And that was all it took; Gregory pulled his lover to him and held him tight. Mycroft rubbed soothing circles on Gregory’s back, allowing him to take what he needed.


	3. A Force of Nature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where I take liberties about natural disasters. No towns were harmed in the making of this short fic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for nixxie-fic on her birthday (albeit a bit late)

Gregory knew something was bothering Mycroft. He could see it in the lines in his face and his posture. He also knew that whatever it was- was probably above his paygrade and security clearance. He sighed inwardly as he watched as Mycroft cut up his meal up into smaller and smaller pieces and push it around his plate, never really eating any.

Finally, Gregory tired of the charade and stood up and picked up both their plates and carried them through to the kitchen. He scraped the remains of their dinner into the bin and loaded the dishes into the dishwasher. He gave the counters a cursory wipe, and headed back out to where Mycroft was still sitting, unmoving.

Mycroft looked up as Gregory entered the room and the inspector couldn’t help but notice how exhausted Mycroft looked. 

“Take me to bed, Gregory,” Mycroft said quietly

Gregory tried not to let the surprise show on his face. He merely nodded and reached for Mycroft’s hand. As they went up the stairs to their bedroom, he thought how this used to bother him; from the not talking to Mycroft’s need to lose himself in the physicality of their relations when he had a trying day. But now he understood that Mycroft needed it; their coupling allowed him to reboot and either see whatever the problem was in a new light, or finally blissed him out enough to where he could get some much-needed rest. He loved Mycroft with all his heart and he knew above all else that Mycroft loved him. So if sometimes Mycroft needed to lose himself in their lovemaking, he would do all that he could to help.

When they got to the bedroom, Gregory gently removed Mycroft’s clothing, starting with his cufflinks and working all the way down to his socks. Mycroft never spoke, but occasionally his breath would catch when Gregory would stop to kiss his collarbone, lick a spot on the inside of his thigh, or whisper a touch down his side. 

Finally, Mycroft was naked, and he climbed into their bed, wanting; the evidence of his need and arousal, long and hard against his stomach. Gregory quickly undressed and joined him, kissing him punishingly on the mouth, licking his lips and the inside of his mouth, tasting Earl Grey tea and the hint of scotch. Mycroft shuddered under the touch and wrapped his arms around Gregory’s neck, deepening the kiss, as if were trying to swallow him whole.

They could feel each other’s hard lengths, and Mycroft had already left a small damp patch on Gregory’s thigh as he pushed into it, seeking friction. Gregory wrapped a large hand around Mycroft’s rock hard cock and stroked, spreading pre-come all over his length.

Mycroft moaned and the sound went right to Gregory’s already hard member. 

“Nnng. What do you want, love?” Gregory whispered in between kisses.

“You. Inside me. Now.” Mycroft gasped out, as Gregory’s hand moved faster.  
Pausing a moment, Gregory reached over for the lube, spreading a generous amount over his fingers. He gently began to work his lover open, taking care, but working as quick as he dared. He crooked a finger, hitting the small bundle of nerves and Mycroft gasped out his name. Gregory smiled, and placed a kiss on his lover’s now damp forehead.

Mycroft continued to moan and writhe in pleasure under Gregory’s tender ministrations until he could take it no more. “Please, Gregory,” he whispered.

Gregory didn’t need to be told twice as he slipped inside Mycroft, slowly at first, but then built up to a frenetic pace. He moaned and murmured endearments, not even certain what he was saying, as he drove inside his lover again and again. 

Mycroft hands roamed, touching Gregory’s tanned skin. Finally, he let one hand rest in his silver hair, and his other slipped down toward his aching, needy cock. Gregory saw this, and quickly pushed his hand away, resuming his fast, even strokes over Mycroft’s cock. 

Mycroft went very, very still before he came hard all over Gregory’s hand and his stomach, spurts of white streaking them both. Gregory moaned again. “That was beautiful. You’re beautiful,” he whispered, as he chased his own orgasm, heat pooling heavy inside him before he was granted release.

After a few minutes that were needed to breath normally again, Gregory slowly extricated himself and looked up at Mycroft. He was lying against the pillows, hair mussed, an arm thrown across his face. Giving him a fond smile, Gregory got out of bed and carefully padded to the ensuite. He splashed his face with water and wet a flannel, which he brought into Mycroft.

Gregory froze when he looked down at his lover. Mycroft’s eyes were damp and there were tear tracks on his cheeks. “Oh, love,” Gregory whispered. He tenderly wiped away the tears with the soft cloth and then wiped away the remnants of their lovemaking from Mycroft’s stomach. He quickly returned the flannel to the ensuite and then slipped back into bed next to his lover.

Mycroft immediately curled up and burrowed into Gregory’s arms, almost like he was trying to get inside his skin. Gregory pressed a kiss into Mycroft’s soft hair. He wanted to tell Mycroft that whatever it was that it was ok; that he loved him and that was all that mattered. Instead, he said nothing, and just held Mycroft to him, stroking his back, until the younger man was fast asleep. Gregory stayed awake a long time after, watching the rise and fall of Mycroft’s chest.

 

When Gregory woke the next morning, he was alone.

Gregory waited up until midnight, but Mycroft never came home. When he woke the next morning, the space beside him was cold.

 

Gregory scanned the papers for the second day in a row looking for some hint of something that might have Mycroft’s “signature” on it. The closest he came to finding anything was the story of how an early warning system failed in alerting a town of an impending volcanic eruption, leading to a loss of life.

Late that evening, Mycroft came home. Gregory looked up from his novel to see him swaying from exhaustion in the doorway. He looked shattered, his suit rumpled and he had startling dark circles under his eyes. 

Gregory put down his book and crossed the room, pulling Mycroft into his arms. The younger man sagged against him, nearly asleep on his feet. Gregory kissed him on the top of his head and then led him slowly, carefully upstairs.

Gregory quickly undressed his lover and got him into a pair of pyjamas and then under the duvet, where he joined him moments later. He gathered Mycroft to him, frowning at the tenseness of his lover’s body and he sighed heavily.

“It wasn’t your fault, Mycroft,” he murmured against his ear. “It’s like trying to control the weather. Or Sherlock,” he said with rumbling chuckle. “You can’t control a force of nature.”

Gregory felt the moment that Mycroft forgave himself; he took a heaving, shuddering breath, and his entire body relaxed into Gregory’s warm, strong arms. “Thank you,” Mycroft whispered just before he fell into an exhausted slumber.


	4. Bank Holiday

It was the Early May Bank Holiday, and Gregory wanted to go to the Spanish street festival at Southbank. Normally, he would have found a mate to tag along, maybe Donovan or even John. But for once he wanted to do something fun and frivolous with his partner.

Neither of them were working; well Gregory wasn’t. He was rather unsure about what Mycroft was doing. The British Government had been on and off his mobile all day, murmuring in harsh, irritated tones, sometimes not even in English.

Gregory was even willing to go later in the afternoon, when the sun’s rays would less irritating to Mycroft’s pale skin. So, Gregory bided his time; doing a bit of tidying and a bit of reading while he waited for the younger man to attend to whatever bit of business that couldn’t wait until tomorrow.

Finally, Mycroft came out of his office, frowning at his mobile. 

“It appears that Will and Kate did not take my baby name request seriously,” he said, an undercurrent of annoyance present in his voice.

Gregory chuckled. “Well, Diana was a given, eh?”

“Quite, Gregory. Quite.” 

“What name did you want?” Gregory asked, curious.

Mycroft furrowed his brow, wondering if he could evade the question. “Didn’t you want to go to the festival?” He asked, with a shudder on the word festival. Oh, the noise, the people. The things he willingly involved himself in for Gregory’s sake, he thought to himself.

Gregory didn’t let it go, of course. He stood and invaded Mycroft’s personal space. “What name?” He whispered, placing a ghost of a kiss on his lips.

Mycroft bristled. “Lee,” he said with a sigh, relenting.

“But that’s . . .?”

“Yes, it is.” Mycroft stiffened, uncomfortable with where this conversation was going.

Oh.

Gregory smiled. “That’s sweet, love.” He pulled Mycroft into a hug, running his fingers through the soft ginger hair at the nape of his neck, finally feeling his lover unclench.

 

 

A half an hour later, they were meandering around the Southbank; Gregory enthusiastic and Mycroft trying to pretend that he didn’t want to have his security team forcibly remove everyone so he could enjoy this in peace with his partner. They wandered about, Gregory sampling as much of the food as he could. Mycroft refused to eat any of it, saying that he had no idea about the conditions that it was prepared under. 

Gregory knew that was (mostly) utter bollocks. Someday, he would convince his lover that he was perfect the way he was. He finally convinced Mycroft to take a bite of his chocolate laden churro. He smiled as he watched Mycroft lick a bit of chocolate from his lips and the action went straight to his groin. 

He moved in closer to Mycroft and brought his hand up to where there was a microscopic bit of chocolate left on the corner of the government official’s mouth. Gregory gently swiped it away with his thumb, softly caressing Mycroft’s cheek afterward.

The pair continued to walk, shoulders occasionally brushing. Music was blaring; suddenly changing to the Macarena. Much to Mycroft’s chagrin, Gregory began to dance, wiggling his arse suggestively as he moved in time with the music. 

Mycroft stopped short, leaning on his umbrella as he tried to keep from laughing at his partner’s antics. The look on his face was incredulous, but fond. 

Gregory finally turned to him; a smile on his face and Mycroft could see that his pupils are blown wide, nearly covering the chocolate-brown irises that he loves so much. He suggestively licked his lips, still tasting chocolate. Mycroft gripped the handle of his umbrella a bit tighter, his knuckles white from the exertion.

In the moments they have been standing there, a light rain began to fall. Mycroft continued to look deep within Gregory’s eyes; he can feel the arousal pouring off him in waves.

“Take me home, Gregory,” Mycroft finally said, breaking eye contact long enough to unfurl his umbrella over them both to protect them from the elements. 

It was the most enjoyable bank holiday either of them had enjoyed in some time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was in London this past week, and I wanted to remember my Monday afternoon. I've also given Mycroft my middle name, because, well, why not? :)


	5. An Unlikely Occurrence

The first time it happened, Lestrade laughed hysterically for five minutes straight, despite the fact that Mycroft would tell you that the incident in question most certainly _never_ occurred.

They were sitting quietly, relaxing and enjoying each other’s company. The only sounds were of Gregory’s page turning and the frequent crackling of the fire. Mycroft’s feet were tucked under Gregory’s warm thighs as he scrolled through messages on his mobile, responding to someone, and occasionally referring to the thick file on his lap.

The older man slid his thick fingers up inside the cuff of Mycroft’s navy pinstripe trousers, stroking gently. He glanced up through his lashes, smiling as he watched the ginger haired man concentrate fully on the task at hand. He knew the gesture was appreciated; he saw the corner of Mycroft’s lips twitch in a brief smile.

Suddenly, completely out of the blue, Mycroft hiccupped. Gregory looked up from his novel, a look of astonishment on his face. Mycroft blushed crimson, all the way to the tips of his ears. He looked and felt absolutely mortified. He risked a glance at his lover. “Please do excuse me, Gregory,” Mycroft managed to murmur, avoiding direct eye contact with his partner.

Gregory threw his head back and _laughed_.


	6. Brilliant deduction

Detective Inspector Lestrade grabbed a tissue from the box on his desk and blew his nose. He bent down to toss it in the bin, and when he looked back up, the formidable form of Mycroft Holmes was standing in his office.

Lestrade sighed wearily. “Whatever it is, can it wait? I was just about to go home,” he said, his voice thick with congestion.

Mycroft studied him for a moment. “You are unwell,” he said finally.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Brilliant deduction that. Can’t get a thing past you Holmes brothers,” he quipped.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. So, he had seen Sherlock today. That explained the exasperation, he thought. “I merely wished to check up on my brother, Gregory.”

“Your brother is a pain in the arse, but he’s not using, if that’s what you want to know,” he managed to get out before succumbing to a brief bout of coughing. He felt miserable and wanted nothing more than his bed. He stood up from his desk and pulled his coat on. “Now, if there’s nothing else, I’d like to go home and get some sleep.”

Mycroft nodded, tapping his umbrella on the ground. “Can I offer you a ride?”

“Yeah, go on then,” Lestrade said. It would certainly beat the Tube at this hour. 

Mycroft nodded again, and the two made their way out of Lestrade’s office and out of the Yard. As they walked over to the waiting towncar, Lestrade gave a strangled breath and sneezed harshly.

He quickly scrabbled in his coat pocket, pulling out a well-used tissue and blowing his nose. “’Scuse me,” he muttered, blushing.

Mycroft tutted. “God bless you.” He removed a soft looking handkerchief from his pocket and handed it over to the ailing detective inspector. “Here, please,” he offered.

“Thanks,” Gregory said hoarsely. He took the extravagantly supple cloth, his fingers brushing against Mycroft’s accidentally. He wasn’t sure if it was a hallucination brought on by the cold he was suffering from, but he was sure there was a spark as their fingers touched.


	7. Alright for now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can take this as before Reichenbach or before HLV. Either way.

Mycroft was no stranger to anxiety, but had over the years learned how to cull the overwhelming feelings and emotions. He knew how to lock the sentiment away in his own “mind palace,” for lack of a better term. Sherlock always did have such a way with words, he thought fleetingly before turning back to the documents in front of him.

He had no idea if the plan would work; there were so many variables that had not been accounted for, nor were there any opportunities for a trial run. He leaned forward and put his head in his slightly trembling hands, exhaling heavily.

He was unsure how long he stayed like that, his entire body tense with the stress of the situation. It was dark when he felt Gregory’s warm hands on his shoulders, offering comfort. Mycroft wanted to lean back and take the solace being offered but he felt that he deserved the pain as part of his penance. He blamed himself for not being able to protect his younger brother.

He sat frozen, unable to move, as his lover rubbed his shoulders and then moved up to massage the tense muscles in his neck. He nearly cried out as the tension dissipated under Gregory’s gentle ministrations. 

Finally, the older man leaned down, wrapping his arms around Mycroft’s shoulders and holding him tight. “Whatever it is, it will be alright,” he whispered into Mycroft’s ear.

Reaching up, he placed his hand over Gregory’s, relishing in the warmth. And for a moment, he allowed himself a brief modicum of hope.


	8. In the rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on this picture making the rounds this week
> 
> http://greglestrade.co.vu/post/119939562382/getlestrade-lestrade-in-the-rain-by-getlestrade

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade stood in the rain, his back to the crime scene he had just stepped away from. He was cold, wet, and completely exhausted. This case, these kinds of cases always tore him apart. His shoulders slumping downward, he stopped to shove his hands in his pockets in an attempt to try to keep a bit of his body warm. 

He was unsure how long he stood there for, frozen in time, until he was aware of someone calling his name; Donovan. Her hair was sopping wet, her dark curls heavy and dripping with water. “Are you ok?”

Sighing, he nodded. He wasn’t ok, not really, but nothing Donovan could do would solve that right now. She looked up at him and could see that this case would haunt him. Unsure what to say, she reached out and squeezed his arm before turning and walking back toward the crime scene.

He looked upward into the night sky, wanting to rant and rave at a God he wasn’t sure he believed in, especially after nights like this. If tears mixed in with the rain coursing down his face, well the weather covered all manner of sins.

With a final ragged sigh, he began to walk with no destination in mind. Less than a minute later, a black town car had slowed beside him, and Lestrade didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Part of him wanted to keep walking, to run as fast as he could away from all this, but he was far too responsible for that. So he stopped walking and got into the waiting car.

Sniffling, Lestrade shivered from the cold and tried his best not to drip all over the interior of the car and its other occupant. Mycroft Holmes looked his partner and lover over wordlessly, his face not betraying the emotions he was currently feeling. He could start and stop wars with a word or a glance across a room, but there was little even he could do to stop the evil lurking in the hearts and minds of others. He only hoped that his presence could help soothe whatever ailed his Gregory.

Reaching into his pocket, Mycroft pulled out his pressed handkerchief and handed it to the inspector. It wouldn’t do much to dry him off, but he hoped it would be welcome nevertheless.

Lestrade nodded his thanks and wiped his face and hair as best as he could. Shoving the damp cloth into the pocket of his raincoat, he leaned back against the leather seat and sighed heavily, closing his eyes. He could feel Mycroft watching him, reading every line on his face and deducing the outcome of the day, even if he had been briefed on it already.

Mycroft remained quiet; the only sounds came from the rain beating a tattoo on the hood and roof of the car and the soft purr of the engine as they drove through the wet streets of London. After a few moments, he finally reached out and took Gregory’s chilled hand in his warm one. Gregory gripped his hand tight. Neither of them let go.


	9. Ring

It was a chilly spring evening when Mycroft finally told Gregory about the ring he wore. They were curled up on the couch together and Gregory was slowly caressing the fingers of his lover, stroking gently. He brought Mycroft’s right hand up, and kissed it. 

Mycroft watched all this and saw that each time his partner stroked his right hand, he paid careful attention to the ring. He knew Gregory must be curious; who wouldn’t be at this juncture of the relationship, he thought. 

The wood in the fire crackled loudly, and it brought Mycroft out of his thoughts. He took Gregory’s hand in his own and began to speak.

“The ring belonged to my grandfather. He gave me it just before he died.”

Mycroft paused there, surprised at the wealth of emotions just saying those few words brought out. He felt like he was drowning; he couldn’t get enough oxygen and his heart was racing.

Gregory pulled him close and held him tight. Mycroft was aware that the older man was whispering soothing words, but he couldn’t make out what they were. Embarrassed, he felt tears running down his face but could do little to control them. With a slightly calloused thumb, Lestrade brushed the tears away.


	10. Ink your name across my heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm supposed to be fixing/finishing my literature review, but this popped into my head and I had to get it down.

When Gregory Lestrade was eighteen, he went to Blackpool with some mates on holiday. After an afternoon of lounging on the beach and drinking too much cheap lager, they wandered the streets looking for trouble; or excitement, which ever found them first. 

For a lark, and a drunken lark at that, he went to a fortune-teller who told him he would marry someone with the initials MH when he was older and greyer. He paid the old woman no attention, but when he woke up the next morning, there was a small tattoo of the initials ‘MH’ in Gothic script over his heart.

Years passed, and Lestrade forgot all about the bit of ink on his tanned skin. It was only when he met a skinny junkie named Sherlock, and subsequently his posh and equally slender older brother, did he give more than a passing glance at the faded initials on his skin after a long shower on a hard day at the Yard. 

At this point in his life, Gregory Lestrade didn’t believe in coincidences, happy or otherwise. 

Months later, he was at a crime scene and the ubiquitous older brother had arrived in a swath of cedar and sumptuous wool; his Crombie coat and umbrella more expensive than Lestrade’s entire wardrobe. The detective inspector was saying to Sherlock that it had to be coincidence, and the consulting detective was rather too concussed at that moment to argue.

Mycroft interjected at this point. “Now then Sherlock. Detective Inspector,” he said. “What do I always say about coincidences?” He paused a moment, as if for dramatic effect. 

“The universe is rarely so lazy.” He smiled smugly and looked down at the shiny tip of his umbrella, making tiny ripples in the nearby puddle.

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes dramatically, but Lestrade gaped at Mycroft, eyes wide, his hand instinctively covering his heart. And in that moment, he felt hope for the first time in years.


	11. Frost II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of chapter 2, Frost

Gregory was shivering. Mycroft frowned, not wanting to break their embrace, but he thought getting Gregory home took priority. 

Mycroft stepped back a bit, still keeping his hands on Gregory’s arms. “We should go home,” he said quietly.

Gregory nodded and reached for his keys, not realising that Mycroft had already removed them and was unlocking the doors. Gregory slipped into the passenger side and allowed Mycroft to drive them home.

Mycroft started the car and turned the heat up as high as it went; Gregory was still shivering from the cold. Slowly the interior heated up, and the DI soon found his nose running from the change in temperature. He pulled the handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose, which had the unfortunate side effect of making him sneeze. He quickly buried his nose in the increasingly damp, sodden handkerchief.

Mycroft glanced over at him. “Good heavens! God bless you, Gregory!”

Gregory blew his nose again. “Thanks.” He leant his head back on the seat. “Sorry,” he added quietly.

“Whatever for?” Mycroft risked another look over at his partner.

“I’m sure you have better things to be doing then to listen to me sniffle,” Gregory said, his eyes shut. He was exhausted, drained from the events of the day.

“Nonsense, Gregory. I am right where I need to be.” Mycroft stopped at a red light and studied his partner. His face was lined in exhaustion and his nose was a rosy pink. Mycroft wondered if his partner was coming down with a cold. He reached over and squeezed Gregory’s hand, before the light turned green.

Gregory smiled and squeezed his hand back. He fell into a slight doze until he realised that the car had stopped. He opened his eyes, blinking the sleep away. Mycroft was looking at him with a fond look on his face. 

“Hi,” Gregory said with a soft smile.

“Hello,” Mycroft replied. “Shall we?”

Gregory nodded and climbed out of the car, shivering from the temperature change; the car had been warm and cosy. They walked hurriedly to the door.

"Can I get you anything?” Mycroft hung his coat up on the rack by the door, and placed his umbrella in its customary spot. He then helped Gregory remove his coat as well.

“I just want to go to bed, Myc,” Gregory said quietly. He sounded utterly defeated.

Mycroft nodded and wordlessly led him upstairs and into their bedroom. He helped Gregory remove his clothing, and got him into a pair of warm pajamas; Gregory had begun to shiver ever so slightly again.

Gregory headed into the ensuite to washup, and Mycroft quickly removed his three-piece suit, taking care to hang up his tie, and placing his cufflinks in their drawer. He slipped into his own pyjamas, and then traded places with Gregory in the ensuite.

When he came out, Gregory was turned on his side, curled up and facing away from Mycroft. The younger man’s heart ached seeing how much Gregory was hurting. He quickly slipped into bed and turned off the light.

Mycroft was unsure if there was anything he could do. Feeling Gregory tremble next to him, he quickly moved closer and put his arms around his partner and began to card his fingers gently through Gregory’s silver hair.

Gregory relaxed into the touch, moving closer, seeking the warmth of his partner. After a few moments, Mycroft spoke into the dark. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Gregory shuddered. “Not yet. I just can’t right now,” he said quietly.

“I’m here if you wish to discuss it,” Mycroft replied, continuing to run his fingers through the soft strands.

They were quiet like that for some time. Mycroft knew Gregory was still awake based on his breathing. He began to rub the tense muscles in Gregory’s neck and his lover let out a soft whimper of pleasure. Mycroft smiled.

They remained like that for a while, Gregory sniffling occasionally.

“Are you feeling alright?” He asked gently. He reached up and brushed the fringe off his forehead, a soft caressing touch.

"I’m ok,” Gregory said, sniffling again.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but let it go. He then pulled Gregory to him. Normally, Gregory was the one who held him, but tonight he held Gregory close to him, trying to keep the inevitable nightmares at bay.

Much later, Mycroft awoke, immediately alert. Gregory was keening; a terrible sound that broke the younger man’s heart. He reached out for his partner, gently at first, placing a hand on Gregory’s too warm back. Mycroft frowned, dealing with an ill Gregory was one thing, but a distraught and unwell Gregory, well that was both alarming and disconcerting, he thought.

He began to rub slow, small circles until Gregory’s breath finally evened out; at least Mycroft thought it had. Gregory suddenly gasped, sneezing explosively; the cause of the additional uneven inhalations.

“God bless you,” Mycroft murmured into the dark, as he continued to gently caress his lover’s back.

“Thanks,” Gregory whispered, sniffling wetly once, then twice. “Myc?” He asked softly, his quiet voice slightly nasal.

“Mmmm?” Mycroft murmured, until it occurred to him what Gregory might be asking of him. “Of course. Here, my dear,” he said, having reached over for a handful of tissues and placed them close to his partner’s hand.

Gregory half sat up so he could blow his nose. When he was done, he balled them up, and half tossed them on to the nightstand, and slipped back into Mycroft’s embrace.

Mycroft pulled Gregory close and rubbed his arm softly, not wanting to overwhelm him in any way. He wished that his lover would talk to him about how he was feeling. He had deduced a great deal, of course, but there were still many questions left unanswered. The first of which was why was he so affected by these kinds of cases. He had long thought of going through Gregory’s file again, but felt it wrong, now that they were in a serious relationship. 

In the faint light that seeped in around the curtains, Mycroft could see the tightness around Gregory’s eyes; a clear indication the older man had a headache.

“Do you need anything?” Mycroft asked, concerned. 

Gregory shrugged. He wasn’t one for taking medicine unless it was absolutely necessary.

“My dear, it is clear that you are not feeling well. At the very least, please let me get you something for your headache,” Mycroft said gently.

Gregory finally nodded, running a hand over his face.

Mycroft quickly slipped out of bed and returned a moment later with two pills and a glass of water.

Gregory gave him a weak smile in thanks and swallowed the pills down. He drained the glass of water and set it on the nightstand, as Mycroft re-joined him in bed. 

They resumed their previous position, with Mycroft spooning Gregory, and comforting him with soft, gentle caresses. After a few quiet moments, Gregory shifted slightly, and placed a gentle kiss on Mycroft’s hand. Mycroft smiled in the dark at the tender moment as they fell asleep again, each lulled by the other’s heartbeat.

When Mycroft woke up the following morning he was alone; Gregory’s side of the bed was cool. He frowned, wondering where his lover was. He sat up, and ran a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. He looked over in the direction of the ensuite, but the door was open and the light was off. 

It was still rather early, and he did not think that Gregory would have already gone into work, unless he had been called in, and he certainly would have woken if that had occurred. He rose out of bed and reached for his dressing gown with a heavy sigh. He crossed the room, opened the bedroom door and headed down the hall, stopping abruptly when he found Gregory sitting on the top stair, wrapped in his robe, head in his hands. Mycroft sat down next to him and put a comforting hand on his lover’s shoulder. 

Gregory looked up at Mycroft, eyes shiny with tears. Mycroft gasped, shocked at his appearance. “Gregory, please talk to me,” he pleaded quietly.

The older man let out a choked, broken sob, and Mycroft winced at the sound. They sat there together quietly for a few minutes until Mycroft decided that he was far too old to be sitting on the stairs in the early hours of the morning.

"Dearest, come back to bed.” Mycroft stood and held out his hand.

Gregory sniffled wetly, rubbing his nose on the sleeve of his thick robe as he stood. He took Mycroft’s hand and allowed the younger man to lead him back to bed. 

When they were settled back beneath the duvet, Gregory reached over for the tissues, grabbed a handful and blew his utterly stuffed up nose. “Sorry,” he murmured. 

“Please think nothing of it, dearest,” Mycroft said. He paused a moment and considered his next words. “Gregory, I understand that whatever this is, is difficult for you, but I do think you will feel better if you share the burden,” he added quietly, reaching over to squeeze Gregory’s hand.

Gregory nodded, looking down at his lap. Mycroft sensed that this would be easier on his partner if he could do it in his own way, so, he moved so he was sitting behind Gregory, allowing the older man to face away from him. He cradled Gregory allowing him to settle between his legs, and he put an arm around him, giving him as much comfort as he could.

Gregory began to speak quietly about the first case he had as a DI; two young children brutally tortured and murdered by their parents. He trembled and shook as he shared the details of the gory crime scene, and the parents who had seemed so distraught at first. He was explaining how the facts hadn’t added up, and how he had finally pieced together the truth, when he paused to sneeze abrasively into a loose fist.

“God bless you,” Mycroft said quietly.

Gregory cleared his throat. “Thanks,” he replied, grabbing a few tissues and swiping at his nose. He balled them up, and dabbing at his nostrils, he continued his story.

Mycroft listened attentively, allowing the story, which he remember hearing about at the time (but had not paid much attention to, to be honest), to be told, filling in the gaps that he had already deduced. 

Finally Lestrade came to the end of his tale. "Besides, there’s not much more to the story, well nothing that you probably haven’t already figured out at any rate.” Gregory sat back down on the bed next to Mycroft, taking his hand and caressing it.

“This first case is what gives you the nightmares. It normally does not register until you are faced with details of a case that remind you of it in some way, or when the case deals with children,” Mycroft said matter-of-factly.

Gregory chuckled. “That’s the gist of it, yeah.” He paused, taking a breath. “Cases with children are the hardest, you know? It’s heartbreaking,” he said softly.

Mycroft squeezed his hand tight. “Thank you for telling me all of this. I know it was not easy for you.”

Gregory nodded. It was far easier to keep it locked inside. And besides, before Mycroft, whom was he going to share it with? Anderson? Not too bloody likely, he thought. Not too bloody likely indeed.

He shifted his position slightly, so that he was laying with his head over Mycroft's heart, his lover's arm around him protectively. And Gregory fell back to sleep, listening to the steady, reliable beat of Mycroft's heart.


	12. the early hours

It was in the wee hours of the morning when Mycroft arrived home. He undressed in the dark and slipped in under the duvet next to his sleeping partner. Gregory stirred but did not wake, instinctively moving closer to the warmth beside him.

Mycroft let out the breath he had seemingly been holding for ages as he settled down. It had been a long, arduous trip and he was exhausted, but was unsure if he would be able to sleep. Shattered as he was, his mind was still racing. He could feel the tension starting to ebb; Gregory’s presence always soothed him.

Gregory murmured something in his sleep, and Mycroft reached out to rub his back. The touch, as gentle as it was, roused him and he rolled over.

“Mmmmm, hey,” the older man mumbled.

“Good evening, Gregory.” 

“Missed you.” Lestrade sniffed as he sat up a bit.

“And I you, my dear. I did not mean to wake you.”

“S’alright,” Gregory yawned. 

“You should go back to sleep, my dear.” Mycroft smothered a yawn of his own with the back of his wrist.

Sitting up fully, Gregory took in his partner’s appearance as best as he could in the dark. There were dark circles under Mycroft’s eyes and he looked paler than usual. “And you should go to sleep, love. You look done in.” He paused a moment. “Come ‘ere.”

Gregory reached out for Mycroft and pulled him close as they settled down. He placed a kiss on the back of Mycroft’s neck and felt him relax slightly. He smiled into the darkness.

Gregory soon fell back to sleep. Mycroft took a bit longer to escape into slumber, but finally surrendered, listening to his lover’s deep even breaths.


	13. Orphan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set in the “universe” of No Good Goodbyes. You don’t need to have read it to understand what’s going on. Greg has lost both his parents over the past few years and well, while it’s gotten better, some days are better than others.

He wasn’t sure what set him off: a snippet of a lyric from a song playing on a radio somewhere out in the larger expanse of cubicles, or perhaps the aroma of hazelnut as someone walked past his office with a cup of takeaway coffee. Out of nowhere, Greg felt tears trickling down his face and the overwhelming feeling of loss that comes with being an orphan.

Despite his (some would say advanced) age, he still identified as an orphan, even now. Barely healed wounds had opened and the salt liberally poured in. He took a deep breath and tried to get a handle on his emotions; he had thought he was past the sudden bouts of crippling grief that had plagued him over the past few years. 

He swiped at his eyes with the back of his trembling hand, and tried to focus on the paperwork in front of him. Tears unshed swum in his eyes blurring the words on the page. Sighing, he covered his face with his hands and curled in on himself.

He was unsure how long he sat like that, chest heaving, as he tried to reclaim his composure. A slight tap on the floor caused him to sit up, sniffling back tears and emotions.

Mycroft was standing there, not a hair out of place, but Greg could see the worry lines around his eyes. He suddenly felt guilty, knowing he was the cause of them.

“Oh, Gregory,” he said softly, but there was no venom in his words. Frowning, he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and handed it over. 

Greg realised he must look a frightful mess and quickly wiped his eyes and blew his nose. “Thanks,” he murmured, not meeting Mycroft’s eyes. He shoved the cloth into the pocket of his trousers and tried to look like he hadn’t just had an emotional breakdown.

“You’re welcome. Is there anything I can do?” Mycroft moved closer and sat on the edge of the desk, as close to Gregory as he could get.

Greg looked up and shook his head. He was once again overwhelmed; melancholy with loss and at the same time, grateful for Mycroft’s reassuring presence. He was afraid if he spoke, he would be lost to his inner vortex of emotions. 

Mycroft seemed to understand. Without speaking, he reached out and took one of Gregory’s hands and held it tight.


	14. Early Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's point of view, a continuation of chapter 13

Mycroft Holmes was no stranger to death. He had lost colleagues and family members like anyone else, perhaps even more with his line of work. However, he was remarkably unfamiliar with grief; both his parents were hale and hearty. And while he had worried more than once over Sherlock’s hospital bed, his younger brother continued to cheat death on occasion after occasion. 

Watching Gregory suffer through losing both his parents, swimming upstream against the grief that threatened to drown him pained him, of course. But he was unable to understand what his lover was experiencing, and it troubled him more than he let on.

Having watched Gregory surrender to the swirling tide of emotions today, it stirred up these thoughts for Mycroft, leaving him unable to sleep. He carefully extracted himself from the bed they shared and fetching his emergency pack of cigarettes ( _hoping Gregory would forgive him this indiscretion_ ), quietly slipped out onto the balcony.

It was cool, but not cold, and Mycroft could hear the early morning song of the birds. He lit his cigarette and sighed, taking a long drag. He let his mind wander, until he was once again thinking about Gregory’s profound grief. 

He was unsure if it was the cool air, the sudden rush of nicotine in his bloodstream, or the calling of the birds, but suddenly his inner voice whispered to him: Think about how you would feel if you lost Gregory.

He gasped and the cigarette floated down to the pavement, sparks flickering. He could hear the blood rushing, pounding in his ears and he gripped the cold iron railing to keep himself upright. He was aware of a keening sound, but had no realisation that it was coming from him. 

Suddenly, strong, warm hands were around his biceps, holding him up, and Mycroft came back into himself all at once. He was vaguely aware Gregory was saying his name, but the blood was still roaring loudly in his ears. Concerned brown eyes were studying him, looking him over, and it was only then that Mycroft realised his face was damp. Shivering slightly, he leant into Gregory’s warmth, and allowed the older man to guide him inside.

He was bundled back into bed, and Gregory wrapped himself around Mycroft’s trembling frame until the tremors subsided. After a few moments, the older man spoke. “Do you want to talk about it?” His voice was low, quiet.

“Would you mind terribly if I said no, for the moment?”

“Only if you tell me you’re ok.”

“I am fine, Gregory,” Mycroft answered, but he wasn’t sure he was entirely convincing. He sighed, hesitating. He wasn’t needy as a rule, but felt that he could use some additional comfort. He just didn’t know how to ask.

Luckily for Mycroft, Gregory was well versed in Holmes. He pulled Mycroft in closer to him, and left his arms wrapped around the younger man’s body, like an anchor. Slowly, he felt Mycroft relax, and then finally, his breathing evened out. 

Gregory placed a tender kiss to the back of Mycroft’s head and allowed slumber to take him once again, as the morning call of the birds sang them both to sleep.


	15. Exhaustion

Greg Lestrade was _exhausted_. He had gone much longer without sleep, of course, but forty-eight hours was his absolute limit these days. As usual, he was left with the mounds of paperwork that came with the conclusion of a case that involved Sherlock.

He stared at the sheet of paper in his hand until the words swam and made an entirely new language, one that he did not know. With a sigh, he set the sheet down and rose from his chair, knees cracking. Ah, the wonders of middle age, he thought to himself bitterly. He grabbed his coat, and with a cursory check that he had his wallet and keys, headed out of his office and toward the main set of doors.

He was momentarily confused when he saw how dark it was; lethargy was quickly addling his brain. He was never so grateful when he saw the dark sedan idling by the curb. He forced his legs to cooperate, and staggered over to the waiting car.

Greg was even more surprised to find Mycroft waiting for him inside. He blinked wearily at his partner. “You didn’t have to come,” he said, his voice rough with fatigue and dehydration.

“It was no bother,” Mycroft said. He sounded alert, despite the hour and he handed Greg an ice-cold bottle of water.

Greg fell upon the icy balm like someone in a desert coming across an oasis. As he drank, he wondered if Mycroft ever felt as weary as he did in this moment. He had a passing thought that Sherlock never seemed to show exhaustion either, at least when he was on a case. John had once sent him a text picturing a sleeping Sherlock in a cab five minutes after wrapping up a case that had gone on for days. He smiled faintly at the memory.

“I believe ninety-six hours is currently my limit,” Mycroft said quietly in response to the unanswered question.

Greg huffed a response, leaning his head on the cool pane of the window. He felt his eyelids grow heavy and close.

“Middle age comes to us all, my dear,” Mycroft whispered. 

Whether or not that was in regards to the pair of them or Sherlock, Greg didn’t know or care. The last thing he remembered was the gentle, feathery touch of Mycroft’s lips on his forehead before he fell asleep.


	16. Woeful

Mycroft gathered his briefcase and umbrella and quietly slipped out the door. It was still dark, and once again it was raining. It had been raining for the better part of a week now, and while most of the time he was ambivalent about the weather at best, he was tired of the damp. Squaring his shoulders within his Crombie coat, he headed down the stairs toward the waiting car. He didn’t bother to put up his umbrella.

The workday was like the rain, seemingly never ending. He drank tea, consulted with Anthea about any upcoming changes to his schedule, and dealt with the PM, holding his hand on some matters of state, figuratively of course. He chaired meetings and signed his name a half a dozen times. Finally, the arduous day was over and he headed back out to the car. Like that morning, it was dark and raining. As he watched London from behind the blurred raindrop streaked window, he sighed heavily. He didn’t like feeling this way; worn down from work, the tedious weather, and the darkness. Every year it was much the same, but this year, for some inexplicable reason, was worse.

When he arrived back home, he hung his coat up, set his umbrella in its stand, and removed his shoes, slightly damp from the puddle-laden walkway. He carried his briefcase into his home office, and then padded down the hallway, following the sounds coming from the kitchen.

Mycroft paused in the doorway. Greg was standing with his back toward him as he prepared a cup of tea. He was wearing track pants and a t-shirt, his hair damp and spiky from a recent shower. Mycroft crossed the threshold, and Greg turned, smiling at him. Mycroft felt the grey haze that had settled over him, be pushed back slightly at the corners.

“Want one?” Greg asked, gesturing to the kettle.

“Please.” He studied Greg for a moment. “Tough day?” Mycroft asked.

“I was stuck out in the rain for a bit, but other than that, average.” Greg got down another cup.

“I’ll start a fire,” Mycroft said, in deference to Greg’s outdoor activities. “I wouldn’t want you to catch cold,” he added. 

Greg chuckled to himself. It was an old argument, now more of a running joke between the two of them. There was no need to contradict Mycroft; he very well knew that standing out in the rain was not going to cause him any harm. He knew Mycroft knew as well, but he still fretted each and every time. It only endeared Mycroft more to him.

Once in the study, Mycroft removed his jacket and tie, and rolled the sleeves of his shirt up before kneeling down in front of the grate and lighting the fire. He watched as the logs caught slowly, the firelight flickering and the wood crackling with soft pops. He stood and continued to watch.

He very nearly startled when Greg came up behind him, wrapping his arms around him. Mycroft relaxed into the touch, and they stood there a moment together, before Greg led him over to the sofa and handed him his tea.

They sat together in companionable silence listening to the fire and the rain outside. Mycroft put his arm around Greg and ran his fingers through his still damp hair. Greg leaned into the touch and hummed.

Once their tea was finished, Greg stretched his legs out on the sofa, and reclined back into Mycroft’s embrace. He took hold of Mycroft’s free hand and traced slow circles on the top of it with his thumb. 

After a few quiet moments, Greg broke the silence. “I ordered you some Vitamin D. Maybe it’ll help,” he said quietly, not meeting Mycroft’s eyes.

Mycroft didn’t reply, so Greg continued on. “It’s ok, you know. To feel this way,” he added hesitantly, hoping that Mycroft wouldn’t take it the wrong way.

Mycroft huffed out a breath, as if he had been holding it. “I am aware, but that does not mean I am enjoying it.” His voice held an edge of annoyance to it. He sighed in irritation; his shoulders slumped down along the armrest of the sofa.

“I know, love. I know,” Greg said quietly. He heard the fire crackle louder, as a log shifted. He wished he could do something, anything for his lover. He knew that the black mood, like a thick Victorian fog, would pass eventually.

Mycroft pulled Greg in tighter, bringing both arms around him. He wondered if he could just hold on like this, if it would keep both of them safe from harm, from any evil lurking outside in the shadows. From the darkness.

Greg turned his head and looked up at Mycroft. Their eyes met and he could see the sadness there, because he knew what to look for. Mycroft gave him a woeful smile in return. Greg turned in Mycroft’s arms, brought his hand up, and gently caressed his cheek. And then he pulled Mycroft in for a hug and didn’t let go.


	17. Deception

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been mentally planning out a new piece for some time, and the Special has certainly increased my motivation to do so. Unfortunately, it's meant to be a long, drawn out chaptered fic, and I certainly don't have the time to devote to such a thing (at least not right now). Which means of course, it's exactly what I want to do! 
> 
> If I get enough interest from this teaser, perhaps I will start seriously planning it out.
> 
>  
> 
> While I do mention a line from the special, there's no real spoilers from The Abominable Bride.

_“Nobody deceives like an addict.”_ Mycroft Holmes, The Abominable Bride

 

The foil packet had two pills remaining. Frowning, Mycroft removed one pill and swallowed it down with a glass of water. He sighed deeply, exhaling through his nose. He picked up the packet and held it between his long fingers, staring at it, wishing that in doing so it would cause them to reappear.

Finally, he brought himself out of his reverie and removed the final tablet. He slipped the remains of the packet into the pocket of his trousers to be destroyed later. He stared at the white pill debating the merits of taking a second. His headache said yes, his conscience said no. Before he could change his mind, he quickly walked up the stairs to his bedroom. Once there, he walked over to his bedside table and opened the drawer. Inside were several books and a small wooden box. Anyone looking inside would assume that he was a voracious reader and disregard the box. He removed the box and took the key out of the pocket of his waistcoat. 

He opened the box, which contained a handful of the same white tablets. With another heavy sigh, he placed the pill inside and quickly locked the box before he could change his mind. He returned the box to its resting place, closed the drawer, and slipped the key back into his waistcoat. For the thousandth time, he wished he had a safer place for it. One of these days Sherlock would expand his breaking and entering to include his bedroom. He had managed to keep him out of his private space for this long, but he knew that eventually his dear brother would get _curious. _Especially if Sherlock found out about his relationship.__

And eventually his partner would discover the box. While not as curious as his brother, he wouldn’t let the locked box go. How could he, especially with his profession? One of these days he would be looking for a pen or a handkerchief and he would open the beside table drawer in search for whatever item he required. Mycroft didn’t know what would happen if his secret was discovered. He had kept it for so long, deceiving and obfuscating everyone from Anthea to the Prime Minister. Even Sherlock had no clue. The skills he acquired long ago in the field for MI-6 certainly served him well. 

He sank down on to the bed and put his head in his trembling hands. His head was throbbing, aching and he felt queasy because of it. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth several times until the wave of nausea passed. He knew he should take a second pill and lay down and close his eyes until the steady _thrum-thrum-thrum_ of pain receded enough where he could hear himself think. But _he_ would be here soon and he knew if he had any chance of keeping his secret, he needed to keep a clear head, and the pain certainly kept him more alert than the pills. 

Sniffing, he rose from the bed and walked over to the mirror. Pupils were normal and reactive, no sign of jaundice, no sign of anything but his normal demeanour. He knew keeping up appearances was the one of the keys to keeping his secret, so he straightened his tie and smoothed down his waistcoat before heading downstairs to put the kettle on. 


	18. Mother's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is set in the “universe” of No Good Goodbyes. You don’t need to have read it to understand what’s going on. Greg has lost both his parents over the past few years and well, while it’s gotten better, some days are better than others. Mother's Day is hard for Greg as it usually falls close to the date on which his mum passed away.

Greg couldn’t have picked a worse evening to be on ‘pick up dinner’ duty. Marks and Spencer was crowded beyond belief, filled with twenty-something’s in slick suits and other professional widows doing the same; picking up the shopping.

He grabbed the best of the meal-for-two deal, along with the finest wine he could find, and joined the seemingly unending queue. As he stood there, impatiently waiting, he couldn’t help but notice the fragrant display of flowers set up along the queue barrier for Mother’s Day.

His jaw immediately tensed (you could have cracked a walnut on it), as did the hand around the basket he was holding. He thought this was supposed to get easier as time passed, not harder. He inhaled and exhaled through his nose several times, trying to reign in his emotions. 

Finally, after what seemed like an indeterminable amount of time, he got to the tills and quickly checked out, grateful for once for the self-scanners. He certainly wasn’t in a good presence of mind to make small talk with a checkout person.

Taking his bags, he headed toward the door, having to side-step a young man who was perusing the prominent display of Mother’s Day cards. Inhaling sharply, Greg all but burst from the store with his bags and headed home.

 

When he arrived home, he put the dinner in the oven and the wine in the fridge to stay chilled. He pulled a beer out, and quickly popping the top, he took a long pull. Greg exhaled sharply and stared down at the granite countertop, thinking. Fuck it, he thought, and searched his pockets for his cigarettes. Yes, he was meant to have given up again, but well, needs must and all. However, he found his pockets empty. Bloody Sherlock, he thought. Always pickpocketing him. 

He went in search of Mycroft’s supposed super-secret stash and removed a cigarette from the pack. He took it, a lighter, and his beer out into the back garden. While he smoked, he looked up at the sky, watching the colours change from orange to blue and finally to darkness. 

Slightly chilled, he turned to take the remnants of his beer and himself inside, and found Mycroft standing at the door, undoubtedly deducing his mood. Mycroft stepped back to let him in. 

“Hi, Myc,” Greg said. He drained his beer and put the bottle in with the recycling. 

“Good evening, Gregory,” Mycroft replied softly. He turned his attention back to where he was putting the finishing touches on setting the table for dinner. 

For once Greg was glad for Mycroft’s deductive abilities; he didn’t need to tell him how shit his day was or what anniversary was looming in the near future, the emotions strengthened by the Hallmark holiday this coming Sunday. He was glad he didn’t have to say anything at all about his day.

“How was your day, love?” Greg asked, despite it normally being a question that would remain virtually unanswered.

However, tonight, Mycroft indulged him. He regaled him with a story about the Prime Minister and his cat, which had Greg relaxing, and then shaking with laughter. 

Mycroft was glad to help break up the melancholy that had settled over Greg in recent days. He knew why of course, and he was doing all that he could to help. He had even nearly had Greg seconded to him for the day after receiving a text from Sherlock stating that Lestrade had been smoking again. Mycroft knew that his strategy would most likely have backfired, so he bided his time and waited.

Dinner was quiet and companionable. Greg did not mention his woes and troubles; he knew Mycroft knew. He didn’t want his sadness to bring down dinner, so he told Mycroft that Sherlock was being an arse and had pickpocketed him once again. And to show he wasn’t all that mad at the younger Holmes, he shared how Sherlock had solved the case with his usual bravado and charm. This time he had Mycroft laughing.

After dinner, they cleaned up the detritus of their meal and then brought the last of the wine into the sitting room. They settled on the couch and found that an old James Bond film was playing on the television. 

Greg made himself comfortable, his head in Mycroft’s lap. Mycroft began to card his fingers through the soft silver strands as the theme music began to play. He felt Greg relax slowly in stages as Roger Moore moved across the screen. He allowed himself a slight smile in getting it right for tonight. He knew the next few days would be rough on his lover, and he hoped that for the moment, he was able to give Greg some measure of comfort.


	19. Memoriam

The townhouse was quiet when Mycroft arrived home. It was late, and normally he would have found Greg in the kitchen cleaning up the dinner dishes or making a cup of tea. If he wasn’t there, he’d be in the study reading a novel or a case file while sipping some of the aged scotch Mycroft preferred.

Frowning, Mycroft made his way upstairs. While the hour was late, it was still far to early for Greg to have retired for the evening. When he made his way into the master bedroom, he found it empty and dark. Mycroft sighed heavily. There was only one other place his lover could be.

When Greg agreed to move in, he only had one stipulation. He needed a room that was his own. It didn’t need to be big, just a small room where he could go when he needed some space, or he needed some quiet to think about a case. It was rarely used; Greg found he liked working in the book lined, dark panelled study instead.

Mycroft made his way down the hall and found the door to Greg’s room ajar. There were no lights on, just the flickering coming from Greg’s old television that he couldn’t part with when he moved. Mycroft gently pushed the door open.

Greg was curled up on his battered leather sofa. He had pulled down an old VHS player and there was a stack of dusty tapes towering precariously next to it. A character on the screen, dressed in the finest the 1970’s had to offer was speaking. “I’m not expendable, I’m not stupid, and I’m not going.” Greg barked out a laugh despite himself, and Mycroft smiled at the sound.

He must have made a sound, because Greg suddenly turned around, pausing the show. “Oh, hi love,” Greg said. Mycroft thought he sounded sad.

“Good evening, Gregory. May I come in?”

“Of course,” Greg replied, sitting up and making room on the sofa, and then he unpaused the show.

They were both quiet until the very end when Vila quipped, “I'll tell you this, though: it beats work.” They both laughed for a moment.

“Reminds me of a young Sherlock,” Mycroft offered.

Greg laughed again, but it sounded slightly forced.

“Are you alright?” Mycroft asked gently.

“Yeah.” Greg ran a hand across his face and sighed. “I didn’t see this one coming,” he said. “I know it’s been a tough year, but. . . .“

Mycroft squeezed Greg’s knee. “I am sorry. I know this was your favourite show when you were younger.”

Greg gave Mycroft a sad smile. “Let’s hope this is the last of it for a while.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft said.


	20. Silence

Mycroft sat behind his desk, a glass of amber liquid untouched in front of him. He stared into the void, at nothing, trying to control the anger running through his veins. Of all things, he never saw this coming.

Of course there would be controversy; every election carried that risk. Yet, this time, it was different. The hate and the vitriol being spewed was astounding, and look what it had come to? Mycroft sighed heavily and put his head into his hands.

He sat there for a long time. He felt his mobile vibrate multiple times, but he ignored it. He didn’t want to speak to anyone right now. Not when there were still so many unanswered questions.

Dusk had fallen, and only the faintest of light was filtering through the window when Greg let himself in. Mycroft was sitting at his desk, still as a statue. Frowning, Greg poured himself a drink and sat opposite his lover. He didn’t speak or offer any platitudes. He knew what Mycroft needed right now, and he was here to provide it. He sipped his scotch slowly and waited in silence for Mycroft to return to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of thoughts about what happened today. Just trying to process.
> 
>  
> 
> As I'm the final stages of finishing my thesis, updates will be few and far between until September.


	21. Treasured

There were many nights where either Greg or Mycroft went to sleep alone. Duty called, as always for one or both of them. Last night it was Greg’s turn to sleep alone.

The DI was putting on his suit jacket as Mycroft slowly entered the bedroom, his own suit wrinkled, accounting for the long hours away from home. He frowned as he watched Greg attempt to tie the slip of silk around his collar. 

As exhausted as he was, he crossed the room and reached out towards his partner. “You have court today,” Mycroft said, acknowledging the reason for the tie. “Please, allow me.”

Greg let go of the tie, assenting. He watched Mycroft’s long, deft fingers quickly tie a Windsor knot. “There,” Mycroft remarked as he stepped back, appraising Greg’s appearance. “Perfect.”

“Yeah, you are,” Greg grinned. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but he was far too exhausted to argue.

Greg stepped forward, entering Mycroft’s personal space. He reached out, and cupped Mycroft’s face in his hands; cradling him as if he were a treasured childhood memento. Greg leaned in and kissed Mycroft tenderly, a soft brushing of lips, that Mycroft immediately returned. When they broke apart, the tense lines across Mycroft’s face had receded, and he felt the tension of the long evening before drain away.

Greg placed another quick kiss on Mycroft’s forehead before reluctantly pulling away. “Get some rest, yeah?” He paused a moment. “See you tonight?” Greg asked hopefully. 

Mycroft nodded. “I would wish you luck today, but I am certain you will not need it.” 

Greg chuckled as he left the room with a spring in his step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ICYMI: We're fundraising for Mark Gatiss's 50th birthday! The fundraising benefits Switchboard, as Mark is one of their patrons. For more information you can visit the [tumblr](http://markgatissbirthdayproject.tumblr.com) for this or donate directly [here.](https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/MGbirthdayproject)


	22. All Things Must Pass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'm sorry for the depressing content . . .

The end of October brought cooler temperatures and the return to GMT. It also brought a distracted and seemingly morose Detective Inspector Lestrade. Mycroft had noticed that his partner was more distant as of late, but blamed it on their hectic work schedules. He didn’t expend a lot of focus on it, what with the American election coming up; he was quite distracted himself.

Mycroft had put it out of his mind until he woke up in the middle of the night to find himself alone. Greg’s side of the bed was still warm, so he figured that his partner had just gone for a glass of water. He waited for Greg’s return for a few minutes, but Greg did not come back to their bed. Normally, Mycroft would have sought him out, but due to the strains and stresses of his workday, he quickly fell back into a restless slumber.

The next morning, Mycroft woke up alone. Greg was nowhere to be found.

Upon checking his mobile, Mycroft found a text from Greg stating that he had got an early start on his paperwork and was at the Yard. While Mycroft was not satisfied with the situation, he had no choice but to accept it, until he got to the bottom of what was happening, of course. There was obviously something wrong and he had his suspicions, but was not going to pass judgement quite yet. 

After a very long and tedious day, Mycroft arrived home to a darkened home. Greg’s coat was hanging up, but the lights weren’t on. Puzzled, Mycroft went in search of his lover.

Mycroft found Greg in his study softly playing his guitar and singing, even more quietly. His voice was low, nearly imperceptible. The younger man stood and listened, knowing this would provide the answers to Greg’s recent behaviour.

_Sunrise doesn't last all morning_  
A cloudburst doesn't last all day  
Seems my love is up and has left you with no warning  
It's not always going to be this grey 

_All things must pass  
All things must pass away_

_Sunset doesn't last all evening_  
A mind can blow those clouds away  
After all this, my love is up and must be leaving  
It's not always going to be this grey 

_All things must pass_  
All things must pass away  
All things must pass  
None of life's strings can last  
So, I must be on my way  
And face another day 

By the time Greg had reached the final verse, Mycroft was certain as to what was troubling his detective inspector. He crossed the room and put a comforting hand on Greg’s shoulder and squeezed. Mycroft then sang the final verse to Greg, in hopes that it would provide some consolation to his distraught lover.

_Now the darkness only stays the nighttime_  
In the morning it will fade away  
Daylight is good at arriving at the right time  
It's not always going to be this grey __

Greg had stopped playing, and was wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. Mycroft came around and sat down next to him, offering up his handkerchief. Greg nodded his silent thanks and rubbed at his eyes for a moment, trying to control his emotions. He stared at his hands, which were trembling slightly.

Mycroft put an arm around him and pulled Greg close. “Oh, my dear,” he whispered into Greg’s silver strands. 

Mycroft’s gentle embrace was the last straw for Greg, and he began to sob in earnest. Mycroft just held him tighter and let him cry, rubbing his back and murmuring his condolences.

Finally, Greg’s sobs slowed down to the occasional sob and skipping breath and he pulled away to wipe his eyes and blow his nose. Sniffling, he finally spoke. “Sorry, love. I got your suit all damp.” He made a half-hearted effort to swipe at it, until Mycroft took his hand in his. 

“It’s of no concern, my dear. It can be easily cleaned or replaced. But you, Gregory, can not.” He paused a moment, trying to choose his words carefully, knowing this was a sensitive subject. “Are you feeling better now?” Mycroft inquired gently, rubbing his thumb across the back of Greg’s hand.  
Greg sniffed and nodded. “Yeah, I think so. I’d been holding it in for so long, I guess, just trying to carry on and not think about it, you know?” 

Mycroft nodded, although he did not have first hand understanding of what his dear Gregory was going through. “Do you wish to talk about it, my dear?”

Greg took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly. He looked down at the ground again, unable to look at Mycroft while he spoke. He knew any sympathetic gesture from the other man would probably set him off in floods of tears again.

“She would have been seventy this week,” Greg finally began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All Things Must Pass is a song by George Harrison. You can listen to it on Spotify, if you wish.
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/track/5qlo3OZV4IEtkwNzs1EM9U


	23. Farce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a friendly reminder that this is a work of pure fiction. Fiction.

Greg woke with a start and very nearly fell off the couch he had fallen asleep on at the sound of smashing glass. “What the . . .?” Greg looked around in confusion, blinking sleep from his eyes. His eyes finally settled on Mycroft, who was standing near the fireplace, his hands trembling. The remnants of the fire sizzled and popped, most likely a result of the remains of the whiskey that had been in said tumbler before it was smashed into a million pieces in the fireplace.

Greg cleared his throat. “What the hell?” He asked again, looking away from Mycroft and toward the large flat screen television that was flickering images, but remained silent. “Oh Jesus. _Fuck_.” He ran hand across his face. He had fallen asleep at some point in the night as the returns came in. He was still partially covered by a blanket; Mycroft must have pulled it up over him.

The younger man, fully and immaculately dressed Greg noticed, was still standing, his shoulders trembling as he worked to control his emotions. He took a deep breath, as if he had come to a decision of some sort, and turned to face Greg. “ _Fuck_ would be an apt statement, Gregory,” Mycroft finally said, his voice icy.

Greg sighed heavily. What the hell had the world come to, he thought. First Brexit, now this? “What are you going to do?”

Mycroft barked out a laugh, but it sounded forced to Greg. “I honestly do not know. This man is a threat to our way of life and this _farce_ should have never gone on this long.” He paused a moment and his expression turned dark. “Perhaps I should ask Ms. Morstan to take on one final task,” he murmured.

“You’re not serious, Myc.”

Mycroft levelled a glare at Greg, his eyes cold. Greg held up his hands in surrender. “Ok, ok, forget I asked.” Not for the first time he idly wondered exactly what his partner had done while in MI-6. In the end though, he always decided that he’d rather not know.

They were both quiet for a moment and Mycroft finally came around to where Greg was still sitting. He all but collapsed on the couch beside his partner, therefore allowing Greg to have a better look at him. He looked shattered, having not slept at all apparently, and there were dark circles under his eyes. 

“You look exhausted,” Greg said, squeezing Mycroft’s knee gently.

Mycroft squeezed Greg’s hand in return. “It is not the first time I have gone without sleep.”

Greg chuckled softly. “I suppose not.”

They were quiet for a moment; until the sound of Mycroft’s mobile vibrating broke the silence. “The car is here,” Mycroft said without looking at the screen.

Greg nodded before pulling him in for a gentle kiss. “See you tonight?” He asked hopefully.

“That remains to be determined. Futures have already fallen by 5% and the market has been quite volatile,” Mycroft fretted. He placed a final, soft kiss on Greg’s lips before rising from the couch. “I shall endeavour to make it home this evening, however. Have a good day, Gregory,” he said before heading out the room.

“You too, love,” Greg called after him.

Greg sighed and turned to look at the television. He watched it on mute for a moment and then picked up the remote and turned it off. Shaking his head at the madness, he rose from the couch and headed upstairs to get ready for his own day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, all fiction. Sorry to be paranoid, but I just wanted to once again clarify that this is fiction.


	24. Beware of Darkness

It had been a long year and the hits just kept on coming. It seemed there hadn’t been a week without a personal or political issue that had caused havoc in their lives for months and months. Greg Lestrade was tired, no exhausted from the emotional upheaval roundabout that this year had been.

He stood in the study and looked out the window at the rain. It had seemingly been raining for days now; heavy downpours interspersed with thick drizzle. Mycroft hadn’t been home in some time, most likely dealing with the mayhem of the American election results and subsequent reactions worldwide.

Greg had been following the news coming out of the States and he was disgusted by what he had read, especially actions taken by young school children. Is this how things were going to be now? He saw first-hand what had happened after Brexit and the rapid increase of violence, anti-Semitism, and outright blatant racism towards their fellow man. It sickened him to the core.

Greg felt helpless and hopeless at the same time and he knew there was little he could do to change things. That was the worst part, knowing that there was little that could be done. He hoped that Mycroft was having better luck diplomatically.

He wandered about the study, picking things up and putting them down again. He poured himself a drink and gulped it down quickly, hoping that Mycroft’s aged spirits would calm his wounded mind and soul. It didn’t, and he poured himself a second measure and sank down onto the couch. He thought about putting on the television but he didn’t want to know what atrocity human kind had committed against itself over the past few hours. 

Greg put his head in his hands and tried to calm his racing, disordered thinking. The whiskey hadn’t soothed his spirit, if anything it made him more maudlin. He missed Mycroft. He always knew what to say, or not to say, at times like these. Even just his presence would be welcome, as Greg most certainly did not want to be alone with his thoughts.

He sat up with a weary sigh and swallowed down another mouthful of the amber liquid. Outside, the rainfall picked up in tempo; Greg could hear it pattering down on the pavement. It certainly fit his mood. He sat there listening to the rain and staring at the remains of his whiskey for a very long time.


	25. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains spoilers for TFP. Beware.

Despite his proximity to the fire, Mycroft Holmes could not shop shaking. He knew he was coming down from the adrenaline rush; the stresses of the day manifesting physically in the form of his trembling hands and limbs. The fire helped somewhat, the whiskey even more. He had wanted to stay and oversee what was happening at Sherrinford, but had been (forcibly) convinced by Lady Smallwood and Anthea that the best place for him was away from the island and its caged glass walls and cold passageways.

With a trembling hand, he picked up the tumbler of whiskey and took another fortifying sip. Putting it down again, he rested his head in his hands, contemplating how this had all gone so very wrong and how the lives of five more people rested on his conscience. 

He was ruminating on his mistakes, when there was a knock at the door. Whomever it was had to be someone he knew; security had been tightened since Sherlock had dismantled all his protocols. Had that just been the day before? He was unsure as to how much time had passed. He rose to his feet, not bothering with his jacket or shoes to open the door. He was only partially surprised to find Gregory Lestrade standing outside the door.

Wordlessly, he let the Detective Inspector in, and walked back to where he had been sitting, refilling his glass and filling another for the DI. His hands were still shaking and he was glad that Lestrade didn’t comment on it. He didn’t have the energy to lie.

Mycroft sank back down onto the couch and stared into the fire. Seconds later, he felt the cushions shift as another body sat down in close proximity. He heard Greg take a sip of his drink and put the glass down on the table in front of them. Mycroft thought he might have heard himself sigh deeply; even the exhalation was uneven. 

He startled when Greg put a warm hand on his arm, and turned toward the older man in confusion. Greg was looking at him, the look on his face and within his brown eyes both filled with concern. Concern for him. Not Sherlock or John; for _him_. This was the straw breaking the proverbial camel’s back and he could hold up his walls no longer.

He was unaware that his resolve had broken on the surface, until Greg was gently wiping the tears from his face. He then pulled Mycroft toward him, enveloping him in his warm, strong arms. Mycroft let out a ragged breath and sobbed. He wept for the sister he had lost, for failing to protect Sherlock, and for the people who had died because of his inability to maintain control. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm leaving it open ended here, as I am not sure where I want to go from this point at this moment in time. I have some ideas, but that's another chapter for another day.


	26. Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: self harm
> 
> This could have probably gone as a stand-alone piece, but I might want to continue it at some point.

The first time Mycroft did it, he had just watched his sister nearly kill Sherlock. He was shaking, trembling from the adrenaline, and needed the pain to ground him. He swore he would never do it again.

The second time Mycroft did it was after he hid his sister away, and informed his parents that Eurus was dead. He needed to feel alive; he needed to feel something other than the sick regret in the pit of his stomach, eating away at him like acid. He swore that he would never do it again.

The third time Mycroft did it was the first time Sherlock overdosed and was clinging to life in a hospital bed. He sat shaking in a toilet stall and watched the blood flow. He swore this was the last time; that he would find a better coping mechanism.

The fourth time Mycroft did it was when Uncle Rudy was laid to rest. Mycroft didn’t feel anything at all, just the stainless steel blade as it touched his pale skin. He watched the blood bubble up and run down his thigh, mixing with the tears he had refused to shed at the gravesite. He didn’t swear anything this time at all.

Years passed and Mycroft found other ways to cope with the strain and stress of being the British Government, a brother, and a son. He binged on heavy pastries and then ran them on the treadmill. He drank too much whiskey and smoked far too many cigarettes in front of old movies; all behaviours he could easily hide from prying eyes of his few superiors and Sherlock’s clever mind.

Home alone, after his subsequent rescue, Mycroft sat in his en suite, a half finished glass of whiskey beside him. Despite the strain and anguish of the day, he felt nothing at all. The siren’s call of former behaviours rang loud and he could feel his hands trembling as he picked up the blade. He could still see the faint scars of old on his thigh. He felt so little and so much at the same time. And, taking a deep breath, Mycroft pressed the blade to his skin.


	27. Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of the previous chapter. Vague spoilers for TFP.
> 
> Again TW: for self harm and blood

When Greg arrived home, the house was shrouded in darkness. Exhausted, he hung up his coat, kicked off his shoes, and stood in the hall for a moment. Something felt wrong. He couldn’t explain it, it was just a feeling that he had. He knew Mycroft should be here by now as he had received a text from Anthea stating he had been cleared medically and was being driven home. 

Without thinking, he made his way upstairs. When he reached the bedroom, it too was dark, but there was a swath of light coming from the slightly ajar door of the en suite. This was extremely unusual, and an icy fear crept down Greg’s spine. Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door.

All he could see at first was the blood. He hesitated for a split second, and then sprung into action. He grabbed a flannel and pressed it to Mycroft’s thigh, trying to stop the blood-flow. Greg could hear his heart pounding and his own blood rushing in his ears.

Mycroft lay there on the floor, paler than Greg had ever seen him before. He was relieved to see the even rise and fall of Mycroft’s chest. He swore under his breath, and risked a look at Mycroft’s leg, carefully removing the flannel. There were eight long cuts, all in a row. It looked worse than it was, thankfully; Greg didn’t even think he would require stitches. The cuts were already beginning to clot.

Before Greg could think about doing anything else, Mycroft began to stir. His eyes fluttered open and the first thing he saw was Greg looming over him, a look of panicked stricken grief across his face. “Gregory,” he said quietly, as he carefully pushed himself up into a seated position.

Greg was speechless for several moments. He honestly did not know what to say. He looked at Mycroft as if he was trying to commit him to memory, and perhaps he was. 

Mycroft watched Greg go through a range of emotions. He waited for him to shout or get up and walk away. Yet, Greg did neither of those things. After a few minutes, Greg sank down next to Mycroft and pulled the younger man toward him, wrapping his arms around him tightly.

“Jesus, Mycroft,” Greg sobbed into Mycroft’s dressing gown. He had so many questions, but right now he was so overwhelmed; all he could do was to hold on tight to his partner.

Mycroft, exhausted and lightheaded, allowed himself to be held.


	28. Trainers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a nice bit of fluff instead of all the angst I've been writing.

For once, Mycroft arrived home right after Greg. He found Greg standing in the kitchen, contemplating the contents of their refrigerator. A medium sized parcel was on the counter that had not been there earlier in the day. Curious, Mycroft peered at the label. It was addressed to Greg.

“Hiya love,” Greg said, looking over his shoulder. He then returned his gaze to the fridge. 

“Good evening,” Mycroft stated. He couldn’t help but glance at the box again.

“Wine?” Greg asked, removing a bottle of Pinot Grigio.

“Please,” Mycroft said.

Greg placed the wine on the counter and went to retrieve a corkscrew and two glasses. “How was your day?”

“Uneventful.” As always, Mycroft was brief about his work life. Greg would have been surprised if he had gone into elaborate detail. “And yours?” Mycroft inquired, although he could read the minutiae of his partner’s day in the creases of his dress shirt, his suit jacket already tossed over a chair.

“Paperwork, an endless stream of bloody paperwork,” Greg moaned as he uncorked the wine. He poured out the libation and handed a glass to Mycroft, their fingers brushing gently.

Greg smiled at Mycroft over his glass, and Mycroft returned it, but the younger man couldn’t help but take another glimpse at the parcel again. It did not go unnoticed by Greg and he chuckled softly. He was enjoying Mycroft’s inquisitiveness and knew that the generic wrapping was a means of keeping him from being able to deduce its contents. He also knew that Mycroft wouldn’t ask him what was in it.

Greg took pity on him and gestured to the box. “It’s for you,” he said, with a grin.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “For me?”

“Yup. I saw them and couldn’t resist.” Greg’s smile was broad and infectious and Mycroft found himself smiling as well.

“Go on,” Greg added. “I know you want to open it.”

Mycroft raised the other eyebrow. He placed his wine glass down and picked up the package. He removed a knife from the butcher block and severed the black ties on the box and then lifted the lid. Inside the box was a smaller box, brightly coloured in blue and red. Mycroft then knew what was inside the box, but when he removed the lid of the interior box, his eyes widened in surprise. 

After a moment of what could only be called abject staring Mycroft spoke. “These are incredible, Gregory. Thank you.” He leaned over and kissed Greg tenderly, caressing his cheek.

“I know you didn’t run the marathon,” Greg said, indicating the label on the trainer that Mycroft had just removed. “But,” he continued. “You are the British Government after all.”

Mycroft, looking at the trainer in his hand, could only laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The trainers in question are these. http://www.brooksrunning.com/en_gb/london-launch-4.html


	29. Take It Easy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set in the “universe” of No Good Goodbyes. You don’t need to have read it to understand what’s going on. Greg has lost both his parents over the past few years and well, while it’s gotten better, some days are better than others.

Greg had had one too many beers the previous evening, celebrating the successful end of a long and arduous case, and woke up with an aching head. Mycroft had left a glass of water and a foil packet of Paracetamol on his bedside table. In addition, there was a text stating he had gone into the office; the G20 summit was becoming problematic.

Greg hoped that Mycroft wouldn’t have to travel to Germany himself. Besides the fact that the younger man severely disliked legwork, he really didn’t want to get that too close to the violent uprisings that were occurring in Hamburg, as he had explained the day before. Greg understood, and he understood what hadn’t been said. He knew that Mycroft was still trying to come to terms with what had happened at Sherrinford and as a result had stayed closer to home than usual. Greg couldn’t complain of course, but he did worry about the emotional toll taken on Mycroft.

With a soft moan, he rose from bed, his head swimming. He made his way into the en suite, used the loo, and splashed his face with cold water. On returning into the bedroom, he popped two pills and downed them with the water thoughtfully left for him. Yawning and stretching, he made his way downstairs for a cup of coffee and a slice of toast, hoping that along with the painkillers, the caffeine and carbohydrates would soothe his pounding head and queasy stomach.

After consuming his breakfast and a second glass of water, Greg’s head had begun to clear. He decided that since Mycroft wasn’t around, and probably wouldn’t be for most of the day, that he would go out for a run to start with. 

He made his way upstairs and changed into shorts, t-shirt, and trainers. On his way out, he grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, snagged his keys, mobile, and sunglasses, and made his way outside. 

Greg was unprepared for the heat he experienced as he walked outside to warm up. The sun was blazing down as London was once again in the midst of a heat wave. He took a swig from the water bottle as he made his way towards St. James Park and slowly picked up his pace.

After one lap around the park Lestrade slowed his pace down, breathing heavily. He realised he was going to have to slow down and take it easy if he wanted to manage another few laps of the park. 

_“Take it easy, Greg.”  
“Yeah mum, I will. I love you.”_

Suddenly, he heard those words in another voice inside his head; a spasm of grief unexpectedly took over, crushing his heart and soul. He came to a complete stop at the side of the path and leaned on a nearby bench, catching his breath. 

Those words he always heard at the end of any phone conversation or visit with his mum echoed around his mind, for what seemed like minutes as he tried to pull himself together. He forced himself to take slow, even breaths until the pounding in his head and heart was reduced to a dull thrum. He took a long drink from the water bottle and then wiped his eyes and nose with the hem of his t-shirt. 

While he was still standing there, he took a moment to stretch out his now aching calves, still focusing on breathing steadily. After another mouthful of water, he resumed running, slower than his previous pace had been, but still enough for him to feel his thighs burning from the exertion, which was a distraction from the pain in his heart.

He was grateful that these memories and reminders came less often, however the pain surrounding them had not lessened. Greg tried very hard not to let them in, and most of the time it was easy what with work and Mycroft and the general day to day that life brought. Thinking about Mycroft allowed his thoughts to turn to the younger man, and he hoped that his partner was able to address the issues of the day from his London office. 

Greg paused again briefly to put his ear buds in and turned up his music, hoping to drive the memories away, for now. He knew he was going to have to deal with them, but for now, they were still too painful to address. He allowed the music to take over as he made two more circuits of the park and then headed home for a much needed shower. 

When Greg arrived home, he stopped in the kitchen for a glass of ice-cold water. As he drank it down, he looked at the last text he had received from Mycroft as he had not yet replied to it. Taking a deep breath, he composed a simple text:

 

_Take it easy, love. -GH_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really want to take a moment to thank all of you who have reached out to me and left comments and personal messages on tumblr, etc. I've used writing as a catharsis and it has helped. . . some. I know that it is not always everyone's cup of tea. But I do appreciate all of the messages and support, it does mean an awful lot to know that there are people out there in my corner.


	30. Alone

Mycroft was drowning, that was the only way he could rationalise the burning in his lungs. Or was he running? Running faster than he ever had before. He didn’t know what or whom he was running from; everything was dark, sinister shadows lurking around every corner. Then there was a loud crack and the sudden sense of searing pain and the scent of burning flesh.

And then Mycroft Holmes woke up.

His heart was racing; he could feel the fabric of his pyjamas damp and sticky against his skin. He breathed in and out, rapidly and forced himself to slow it down and take deep, even breaths, as the dream rapidly fled his memory.

This was what his nights were like now, ever since Sherrinford. 

Once he had controlled his respirations, he reached over for the glass of water on the nightstand. He greedily drank down the cool liquid, only partially wishing it were something stronger. Only partially wishing he was not alone.

Well, maybe more than partially.

Mycroft was used to being alone and had not expected things to change after the _situation_ with Eurus. At first, he thought something might happen; there was a glimpse in the inspector’s warm, brown eyes. As usual, Mycroft locked it down and closed himself off, ever the Iceman. 

Experience had taught him that he was better off alone; that alone protected him. 

Pushing the bedclothes away, Mycroft rose from his bed and walked over toward the window. He drew back the curtain and looked outside into the darkness. It was raining; a steady staccato beat against the window and the pavement below. 

He stood there for a moment, simply listening to the patter of the precipitation.

Finally, he closed the curtains with a heavy sigh. He would not sleep again tonight; he knew this from experience. Slowly, he made his way to the en suite to shower away the fleeting remnants of the nightmare, and the latent desires of affectations not acted upon.

Alone.


	31. The Night We Met

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: for implicit drug use/overdose

[The Night We Met](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KtlgYxa6BMU)

_Take me back to the night we met_  
When the night was full of terrors  
And your eyes were filled with tears  
When you had not touched me yet  
Oh, take me back to the night we met 

 

They met on what would be later referred to as a _danger night_ , which in the end seemed very fitting (despite the involvement of a Sherlock who had overdosed). Greg had found him in an alley and the only number on his mobile phone was listed as MH. While Greg prayed to a God he really didn't believe in and waited for the ambulance, its sirens in the distance, he rang the number and hurriedly explained the situation. 

Mycroft Holmes, resplendent in three-piece suit somehow arrived seconds before the ambulance. He strode across the pavement to where Lestrade and an unconscious Sherlock were and crouched down to look at the pale face of his younger brother; his curls unruly and greasy, streaks of dirt highlighting one high cheekbone.

“Oh Sherlock, what have you done?” Mycroft whispered into chill of the evening air. Only Greg could see the fear and the slight glimmer of tears in the civil servant’s steel coloured eyes.

Now, many years later, their eyes met over another body. And there was nothing they could do this time; all the ambulances in the world couldn’t fix this situation. They each risked a look at Sherlock and then at each other. And they both knew in that moment, there would be more danger nights to follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been staring at this one for ages now, and while I think there's something missing, I know it's time to move on to greener pastures.


End file.
